World Lit. 101

by Homer Vargas

Caution: This Fantasy Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, NonConsensual, Mind Control, Incest, BDSM, Gang Bang, Interracial, Oral Sex, Sex Toys, Pregnancy, Voyeurism, .

Desc: Fantasy Sex Story: Homer visits the greats of World Literature in the company of six sexy writers of Internet Erotica.

I would like to express my sincere gratitude to Denny Wheeler for proofreading and editing major parts of this story and to JCX for helping me with the French and general proofing. Remaining errors, and there are probably plenty of them, are mine. I also express gratitude to my good-humored fellow travelers, whose only mistake was to accompany me on the trip and who have paid for it dearly by receiving unrelenting derision of their personae. Even their own words of demurral and correction have been used against them shamelessly.

"No, NO, NooOOO!!!" I screamed.

I sat up drenched in cold sweat. I hadn't heard the alarm and my watch told me I was late. Louie's car would be here at 5:00 AM to take me to the station. I fairly flew through my morning shower and shave and raced downstairs to have a quick breakfast. No time for the usual, sausage and eggs; I reached for the cereal. Funny, I'd swear that the leprechaun on the Lucky Charms box was smirking at me.

I was still gulping down my bowl of nutritious "frosted whole-oat cereal with marshmallows" when I heard the horn -- sounded tinny. Walking out of the front door, I looked out toward the street but didn't see the limo. "Down here!" came Louie's sarcastic voice.

"What the fuck?" I exclaimed as I looked down on the green, nineteen-foot long, two-foot high vehicle.

"You told me how 'long' you wanted it; you didn't say anything about the height," the green imp smirked.

"How do you expect me to get into that?" I asked.

"I don't. I expect you to make it worth my while to enlarge it."

"Damn you! I'm already paying you a shit pot full of gold to charter the Fantasy Train today. A free limo ride to the station is the least you could do."

"Never done much business with leprechauns, have you?"

I lunged for him but he ducked and I banged my head on the side of the miniature automobile, "Ouch! You bastard. Oh, shit! How much?"

Louie named an outrageous figure and I agreed. Smiling contentedly, he gave a little nod and the limo started growing taller. It stopped at about four feet.

"Is that it?"

"You said you wanted to be able to get into it."

I lunged again but only succeeded in adding a second bruise to my forehead. Accepting defeat, I scrunched myself into the passenger's seat. Tucking my knees into the impossibly small compartment, I gave ironic thanks for my Third-World ancestry that permitted me to travel this way. "I hope you didn't make the women ride in this kind of inconvenience," I scowled.

"Of course not. They are my guests and I am a gentleman."

"No they are MY guests and you are NO gentleman, but thank you, anyway. Did you have any trouble persuading them to come?"

"No, I spewed them the line you gave me. 'The Fantasy Train was being misused for all sorts of juvenile shenanigans - Star Trek spoofs, visits to strippers, a scavenger hunt! We are supposed to be authors of sophisticated erotica, not sophomoric pranksters. This was their opportunity to go into the past and visit real authors and their characters.' Of course I also promised they'd be able to bonk the source of their inspiration," he grinned.

"Yeah, I thought that would get them. They all have literary pretensions but they are horn dogs, too. So, no problems?"

"Of course there were problems when they found out who was inviting them! I believe it was Allison who stated it most succinctly, 'No way! That little fucker just wants to get me alone so he can knock me up. How stupid does he think I am?'"

"But you explained about..."

"The 'Magic Diaphragm,' yes. I promised on my word as a leprechaun that so long as they wore it, no one would be able to get them pregnant."

"And they believed you?"

"People always believe leprechauns; we cannot lie."

"Yeah, but you didn't tell them..."

"Shut up! Do you want to spoil the climax of your own story?"

"Er, not the climax!" I agreed. Sometimes Louie wasn't such a bad imp.

"Well, here we are at the station. I'll be going to the train."

"Thanks," I said trying to extricate myself from the ridiculous vehicle and maintain as much dignity as possible. After all, I was trying to make a good impression on six of the greatest writers in the ASS community. They were already at the station, standing on the platform watching me and trying not to laugh - not hard enough. I had never met any of them before, but it was easy to distinguish them.

Allison was the cute one with short brown hair, flipped slightly on the ends. She looked ready for her first day at university in a knee-length full skirt and blouse. I didn't have to wonder what she wore under the skirt.

Miss Behavin' had on a tailored cream-coloured business suit with the skirt cut about four inches above the knee. That's where the slit started. There wasn't much business transacted at her office when she wore THAT, I thought. Her hair was straight and blond as the day it was dyed.

Virago Blue was even taller than her tales would have you believe, a tower of a woman with hair the color of polished brass that threw back the first hint of dawn. Supple skins clung to her massive but shapely figure. And leather-thong sandals with 5" heels: now that was hot! Her eyes appraised me sternly.

The contrast with Maria could hardly be greater. The hot little Latina stood hardly taller than Louie, although there was a lot of girl packed into her curvy form. She wore a tight red mini with a lacy white blouse, her dark breasts clearly discernible. She looked as if she had just come from strutting in a mall.

Bronwen was much younger than she'd led us to believe. She must have noticed our surprise. "I had Louie pick me up several years ago; I wanted to look my best," she announced with a don't-you-wish -*you'd*-thought-of-that smile that brought glares of resentment from the other women. Very straight, like her stories; she had almost delicate features and dark hair. Her blue eyes and firm chin gave her face a burning intelligence. LW could hope that Allison looked as good when she grew up.

Janey, on the other hand, was exactly as she had pictured herself. She was tall and had long brown hair with a touch of gray - she hadn't told us about that, but...

"Hold on Vargas!" Janey yelled. "I'll accept the 'gray.' I'll even accept 'brown,' though it's really ash blonde. (Look at the Clairol bottles in the drugstore to find out what that is.) But NOT 'long.' Long brown hair with gray in it is 'Cambridge' -- double-plus tacky. No! No! NO! 'short' hair! You better pay attention! I'm bigger than you are!" Oops!

Janey, on the other hand, was exactly as she had pictured herself. She was tall and had short, ash-blonde hair with a touch of gray that Miss Clairol had missed - she hadn't told us about that, but it was sexy as hell. She had chosen a long skirt with a slit high enough to make nudists gawk and it fell from the hips of - a woman.

"Hey, Homer," shouted Louie from the cab of the train, "Cut out that shit about their eyes and hair and chin for chrissake! Tell us about their boobs. The guys that read ASSM want to know how big these babes' titties are. And be descriptive. They want to hear about 'humongous hooters,' 'bountiful bazookas,' 'magnificent mammaries!'"

"Shut up, Louie; I'm writing this story!" I yelled back. "I don't *write* about ladies' bust sizes! This is a serious literary exercise in which six well-known writers, each admired for her ASS,... work, are going to encounter the fonts of their artistic imagination. You can't expect me to insult women like that by talking about their bra sizes!"

"I'm a 34B," piped up Allison.

I covered my face.

"Hmmp!" sniffed Miss Behavin', "*I*'m a 36C."

"Very cute. What do you call them, 'Dow' and 'Corning?'" Janey asked, cattily.

"These babies are all me!" Miss Behavin' retorted giving her boobs a venomous shake in Janey's direction.

"My SOs never complained about these 36Ds," Bronwen added smugly.

"Mine may be small," Janey announced, "But all the men go ape over them. These little jobbies get so hard, my last lover pierced his tongue on my nipple."

I felt like crawling under a rock.

"My 'chichis' look cool like this!" Maria interjected, throwing her head down and holding her arms up behind her as if suspended from her kitchen ceiling.

"I think you girls are trying to make mountains out of mole hills" boomed Virago Blue who silenced the women's silly prattle by pulling aside her wolf-skin bodice to reveal a set of humongous hooters. This woman was stacked like a brick shithouse! I mean, she had a bodacious brace of bountiful bouncing bazookas, a tumescent twosome of toothsome mammoth mammaries, a...

The sound of Louie's giggle stopped me.


The sight of six such amazingly beautiful, totally different women took my breath away. The women were equally surprised to see me. "Disappointed" would be a better word. Maria had probably guessed what a Vargas would look like, but the others had entertained vain hopes of someone taller and more rugged, maybe a slightly older Ricky Martin or Antonio Banderas. "Oh, well, I wasn't planning on fucking him, anyway," said six sets of eyes.

"Thank you so much for coming this morning to the Fantasy Train, ladies," I said, smiling in the face of their dismay. "Shall we board?" I stood by the tall step of the rail car and offered each authoress my hand, being gentlemanly, as my Southern mama had taught me. She didn't say I couldn't try to peek up their skirts as I did so. Even better than the furtive glances was the aroma. Ahhh! What can smell better on a chilly morning than a warm pussy?

Maria's twat had a delicious, homey smell with just a hint of Jalapeno. Virago Blue's fragrance called to mind wild, windswept heaths and - I thought Generic Joe was having us on - she really DID have a chain-mail thong panty. Miss Behavin' had little aroma at all, probably having been licked too clean that morning by her husband or one of the assistant husbands in her polyandrous household.

I wasn't disappointed by Bronwen. Her pussy didn't smell properly English at all, but wild and exotic -- "Dr. Livingstone, I presume?" Janey's smelled surprisingly sweet, a familiar odor -- of course -- creme brulee! Either she'd had her husband up to some funny business this morning or she'd OD'ed on them the night before. Allison had a nice tangy odor, but as I inhaled, enough light filtered through her dress to allow me to read the citation tattooed neatly by her panty-less pussy: "If you can read this, you are too dammed close to my wife's vagina. Cease and desist or I'll habeas your worthless corpus so bad you'll wish you had an amicus curiae: - LW."

With the last crotch sniffed and pussy peeked, I pulled myself aboard and gave Louie the signal to embark. I could feel a slight vibration as I walked into the spacious club car where the women had settled, sitting, talking, sizing each other up. Out the window, genres, typefaces, and proofreaders' marks were flying by.

"So now that we're all on board, tell us how this works, Homer," Janey demanded.

"Quite simple," I replied, "We stop at the time and venue of some important writer and one of you gets to alight to "interact" with him and any of his characters that you may find. What you do is pretty much up to you. I'm just playing host as a token of the high esteem in which I hold each of you."

"You're playing host because you're hoping you can get us pregnant," responded Allison, "But it's not going to work. Louie gave us each a magic diaphragm and promised us on his word as a leprechaun that so long as we keep it in, neither you or anyone else can get us pregnant. We can fuck anyone we want to, right girls?"

A cheer went up from the assembled women.

"And don't get your hopes up, little man," snapped Miss Behavin'. "With several centuries of real and imaginary men to choose from, I think we can do a hell of a lot better than YOU."

"Ladies, please. Such cynicism! I just want to help you have an interesting literary excursion," I replied with as much dignity as I could. "We'll be stopping in chronological order. I thought a nice beginning would be Chaucer. Nothing much written before him is recognizable as English. Who'd like to visit him?"

"Excellent idea. I would." Bronwen spoke up. "He's very funny and his 'Canterbury Tales' was sort of the ASSM of its day. I wonder if he's as sexy as his stories?"

"I'll bet it's not Chaucer you're after, you horny cow," Janey taunted. "You're just hoping to meet up with that young Squire.

"So hoote he lovede, that by nightertale
He slepte namoore than dooth a nyghtyngale,"

quoted Janey - the show-off!

London, circa 1390:

We found Geoffrey Chaucer in a well-lit room of a London palace. He was dressed richly, sitting at a sturdy writing table. A lute played in the background. Royal patronage definitely had its advantages. His eyes lighted up when I introduced Bronwen, now dressed in full court regalia. He had no difficulty understanding that we came from a far future time. Bronwen bowed her head in a most fetching manner. Are English girls born knowing how to do that?

"I've admired your works since I studied them in school, actually since I found the parts we did NOT study in school," she smiled.

"In school?" he asked, obviously fishing for compliments.

"Yes, everyone has to memorize:

'Whan that Aprill, with his shoures soote
...The droghte of March hath perced to the roote'"

she recited.

"Bronwen is an authoress, herself," I pointed out, "One of the best on ASSM."

"ASSM? What is that?" Chaucer asked.

"Oh, a very large compendium of bawdy tales," Bronwen explained. "Master Rey Del Sexo has collected thousands."

"I hope that Master Del Sexo has a rich patron as I have in John of Gaunt to provide him with quills and parchment in abundance," Chaucer remarked.

"If it were only that simple, Geoffrey. Rey has to pay for a server, line charges, beaucoup bandwidth; it's very expensive. That is why he needs all the people who read ASSM stories to contribute to making it possible for him to continue," I explained.

"Can he not require money when someone buys his book?"

"ASSM" is not really a book, Geoff. It's sort of like being in the public domain. Like, how long has it been since *you* got any royalties?"

"Tell me!" he groaned. "Christie's just auctioned off one of my manuscripts for 7.5 million bob. How much did I get? Zip! Terrible! So how DO Master Del Sexo's patrons provide him with support?"

"Thought you'd never ask, Geoff. They just click on

to get information."

"I hope our visit here will encourage some of those who read this story," Bronwen turned and nodded sweetly to the online readers, "to read your stories again."

"Why, thank you!" Chaucer beamed.

"That's not the only reason I came, however," Bronwen admitted, a gleam in her eye. "I was wondering if I might have a word with John."

"John? You mean the Carpenter of the 'Miller's Tale?'" Chaucer asked.

"Yes, I've developed a soft spot for the bloke. My own dear is a good bit older than I and it's not that long ago that I was a 'newe wyf and wylde and yong,' Bronwen said, casting a cool glance at the unseen Janey as if to say, "See? You're not the only one who's read 'Canterbury Tales' in the Middle English."

"I could conjure him, if you wish," Chaucer replied.

"Actually, I prefer to pay him a visit at his shop. And with that, Bronwen stepped through an invisible wall into a carpenter's shop where a middle-aged man was absorbed making a yoke.

"Good morrow, John," Bronwen greeted him. She was now dressed in the simple garb of a townswoman.

"Good morrow,..." he was confused to see an unfamiliar face, though it was a very pretty one.

"Madam Bronwen," she stated.

"Well, Madam Bronwen, have you come to buy a spatula or a mixing bowl?" he inquired.

"No, John, I've come to talk to you about Alison."

"Hey, you misspelled my name," shouted Allison. "I HATE to see my name spelled that way!"

"Tough, that's the way Chaucer spells it," I replied. "Now go away; you're not supposed to be in this section of the story."

"Alison?" the man replied, his face lighting up at the thought of his beautiful wife. Then it clouded.

"Alison," Bronwen repeated. "You have a good girl there, John. With care she'll become a good woman."

"Indeed, I love my Alison more than my life," he sighed.

"But she won't be yours long unless you do something, John."

"Do something?"

"John, I can't put this a delicately as Bob Dole would, but if you don't start getting her off more often than off 'n' on, she'll be looking for it elsewhere. I've got to warn you there is a lawyer with golden curls named Absolom who has the hots for her. And Alisons have a weakness for lawyers," Bronwen added. "She's eighteen, John, and you're... forty five?... fifty? She needs more than she's getting at home."

"Aye, Madam Bronwen! I fuck her as often as I can, but she is a minx. I give her everything she asks and keep her at home as much as I dare. What else can I do?"

"Take one of these tonight," Bronwen smiled shaking a large blue pill from a Viagra bottle, "and call me in the morning." With that she walked back through the invisible wall into the room with Chaucer and me.

"Anachronism! Deus ex machina!" Janey tried to interject from a higher level of the narrative, but Bronwen silenced her. "Viagra is like my American Express card, my dear. I never leave home without it. Never can tell when the old man may take a notion to jump me."

"Very thoughtful of you, Bronwen," I said, "But I actually expected you to... er..."

"Fuck one of Geoff's characters? All in good time, Homer. Now, excuse me." And again she walked through the wall.

"Good morrow, John. How was your night?" she grinned.

"Fabulous!" exclaimed the happy but slightly disheveled carpenter. "I haven't been so hard or kept it up so long since I was fifteen. And Alison loved it! Woke the neighbors, I'm sure. Where may I purchase more of this marvelous potion?"

"Well, there are several internet sites, but they won't do you much good. I will leave you a supply, but you'll have to ration them - your anniversary, her birthday, St. Valentine's Day."

"So I can please her only when I take the potion? And when it is gone?" he asked forlornly.

"Hold out your hand, John... Humm. Better trim those nails, but nice long, strong fingers."

"I don't understand."

"Let me see your tongue,... Farther out... Make it rigid. UuuHu... Can you curl up the edges like this?... Good! John, I'm going to show you how to keep Alison a happy woman," Bronwen said, flipping the sign on the shop door over into the "Closed" position and lifting the hem of her skirt.

"Forsooth! My Alison doesn't wear panties, either," John exclaimed as he gazed on Bronwen's bare, moistening pussy.

"Alisons often don't, " Bronwen remarked as she drew the face of the astounded carpenter between her legs.

Without boring you with otiose details, I can tell you that Bronwen proved once again the Franciscan dictum that it is only by giving that we receive.

"Oh, shit, yes! Suck it John baby! Uuuoo! Yeah! Soooo goooood! Oh, God! I'm going to come agaiiiiiinn!!"

"So you figure that between the Viagra you left for him and his new skills as a cunninglinguist, John and Alison will live happily ever after?" I asked the obviously self-satisfied Bronwen back in Chaucer's studio.

"Well, that's not all I left him. He's a carpenter, so he didn't have any trouble making a replica of this!" she smirked as she pulled a wicked-looking dildo from her handbag. "Something else I never leave home without. Never know when the old man may NOT take a notion to jump me."

Chaucer and I looked at each other in amazement. "See you back on the train, Homer. Now, I'm going to find that 'lusty bacheler' Squire. My guess is the boy will be 'slepen al the nyght with open eye.'"

London, circa 1595:

Virago Blue and I stepped off the train just outside a London garret. She had to duck to get through several doors as I led her confidently to the room Louie had told me about. We found Shakespeare (who, amazingly, looked just like Joseph Fiennes) hunched over a small writing desk. A single beam of sunlight illuminated the dark room, which was just as well. It made it easier to see the young woman Shakespeare was eyeing in his imagination.

"Good morrow, Master Will," I greeted him.

"Forsooth! Prithee who be ye and whence cometh ye unto my chamber?" he replied.

"I'm sorry Will, but this is just a short story and I haven't got the time to write and, frankly, my readers haven't got the patience to wade through, Elizabethan English. So can we switch to 20th Century US?

"I'm cool," he agreed.

"Great! Let me introduce Ms Blue. She's a writer.

"And I've always wanted to meet you, Mr. Shakespeare" she cooed. Shakespeare looked up at the giantess, not knowing whether to be flattered or alarmed.

"So, what's cooking," I said trying to turn the conversation in a literary direction.

"It's this darned sonnet; it's just not working."

"What's the problem, Will?"

"Well, like there's this babe..."

"Will, I said '20th Century US.' You don't have to do 'Valley Girl.'"

"Oh, OK. Well, there's this woman and she is so hot, but I can't get anywhere with her."

"Blonde?" I asked glancing over at the figment.

"Yeah, how'd you know?"

"I'm one of those authors omniscient."

"I want to write something romantic so I can get into her pants."

"Do any of us write for any other reason?" I replied. "What about this? She's pretty now, but twenty, twenty-five years from now, who will remember what she looked like. You guys don't have Kodaks, after all. She should let you get her pregnant to preserve her 'image.'"

"I like it!" Will exclaimed. "She's vain enough; it just might work. Let's see

I look upon you now and see you babe,
but in a while what's gonna come of you?'"

"Hmmm. Well, it IS the right meter, but I think you want something a little more lofty, serious-sounding. Chicks like that," I told him. "How about:

Look in thy glass and tell the face thou viewest,
Now is the time that face should form another,
Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,
Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother."

"Hey, that's good, Homer! Then I tell her how good she'd look with a big belly poking out and huge tits dripping with milk!" he said with a maniacal glint in his eye and rubbing his hands in glee like Frank McCoy!

"I think you could phrase that a little more delicately, Will, say:

So should that beauty which you hold in lease
Find no determination, then you were
Your self again after your self's decease,
When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear."

"Yeah, she'll go for that, but it doesn't quite rhyme."

"It'll rhyme when you say it," I assured him.

"And then I tell her that just as she looks like her sexy Mom, a pretty daughter would look like her. Huh?"

"That's an idea," I agreed. "How about:

Thou art thy mother's glass and she in thee
Calls back the lovely April of her prime,
So thou through windows of thine age shalt see,
Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time."

"Right! So, she should let me knock her up!"

"Indeed, you just drive it home with a clincher:

But if thou live remembered not to be,
Die single and thine image dies with thee"

"If you boys are *quite* through with the literary foreplay," Virago Blue broke in with exasperation, "I believe this is MY section of the story and one of my prerogatives as a protagonist is supposed to be to fuck the author being visited. So if you will excuse us, Homer, I have some business to attend to with Will." Before he could object, William Shakespeare, poet and dramatist, found his hand grasped tightly as he was almost yanked out of the scene. "Let's see the length of your iambic pentameter, big boy," Virago purred.

"She's going to fuck his brains out!" remarked the pretty image.

"That's the point of bringing her here," I explained. "But aren't you supposed to be the 'dark lady?' Why are you blonde?" I asked, struggling to regain narrative control.

"Hollywood casting!" she huffed. "Until a few months ago I had long black hair like all those other Italian women he has a thing for. Then some genius in Southern California decides that Shakespeare would be hot for Gwyneth Paltrow and, boom, I get this stupid dishwater hair."

"Oh, you shouldn't say that. You're very beautiful!"

"Oh, do you really think so?" she smiled and tucked a strand into her bun.

[NOT her bum, you dirty-minded freaks!]

"Of course you are, my dear, radiant!

Look in thy glass and tell the face thou viewest,
Now is the time that face should form another,
Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,
Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother."

"Oh, God! That is sooo hot!" she sighed.

"You'd be such a pretty mother.

So should that beauty which you hold in lease
Find no determination, then you were
Your self again after your self's decease,
When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear,"

I whispered as I began to fondle her breasts.

"Please, stop. I getting so wet."

"I guess it's that time of the month, right, honey. Our baby is going to be so beautiful;

Thou art thy mother's glass and she in thee
Calls back the lovely April of her prime,
So thou through windows of thine age shalt see,
Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time."

"No, NO" she protested, but let me continue to feel her up.

"But if thou live remembered not to be,
Die single and thine image dies with thee."

"Oh, yes! Fuck me! Fuck me," she cried.

I wondered if Shakespeare would know he'd been cuckolded? Probably so, when he sees how brown the baby is. Maybe he'll blame it on Iago.

"This looks like more fun than I expected," said Maria when we were all back on the train. Who is next?"

"You are. I thought you might look in on Sor Juana."

"Sor Juana? Who's she?" Maria asked

"A seventeenth century nun in Mexico City who wrote passionate religious poetry 'suffused with emotion of almost erotic intensity,'" Janey butted in.

Dammit! I hate it when my characters are more erudite than I am!

"You mean she got off on...?" Maria said, turning up her nose as if she had swallowed a bug. Janey and I nodded our heads.

"Weird," said Maria. "Do I have to?"

"I was just teasing you, Maria. I know who you'd really like to see."

"Lady Godiva?" she asked.

"Some other story. Good chocolate, though. No, I thought while Virago is getting shagged there with Shakespeare, you could drop in on his contemporary in Spain."

"You mean Cervantes? They lived at the same time?

"Born the same day," Janey blurted out before I could. I ground my teeth, beginning to regret I had invited her.

La Mancha, Spain circa 1610:

"Kind of dry and desolate around here," Maria remarked as we stepped off the train and onto a barren landscape.

"That's the reason they call it 'La Mancha' instead of 'La Costa del Sol,'" I replied. "But if you want to find Cervantes, this is the place to come."

"Why can't we just go straight to his house or whatever like you did with Shakespeare and Chaucer?" Maria asked.

"Because," I replied, foreshadowing the action to come, "Sometimes the search is more interesting than its object. Let's just go into that taverna over there and you can ask around."

"I can't go into a taverna full of men dressed like this!" protested Maria who still had on the tight red miniskirt.

"You'll be perfect," I leered. "Remember 'FAQ?'"

"You're going to make me humiliate myself!"

"Nothing you don't want to do, honey. Come on."

We walked into the dark room. It was early afternoon, but it was already filled with travelers. The gurgle of conversation abruptly ceased when the men saw Maria.

"Carajo! What a set of chichis she's got!" exclaimed a man near the bar.

"Gran Tetones," affirmed another.

"You've got their attention." I told her. "Ask."

More than a little nervous and fuming at the way I had set her up, Maria stepped farther into the room. "Perdonen, Senores, but I am looking for Don Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra. Do any of you know where I can find him?"

"You mean the one-armed guy who wrote about that crazy caballero Don Quixote and this faithful side-kick Tonto, er,... I mean Sancho?"

"Yes, he!" Maria exclaimed, thinking this would be easier than she had feared.

"Never heard of him!" The room broke out in laughter and Maria glared at me for putting in such a stupid joke.

"Actually, we might be able to help you, little lady, if you make it worth our while," a grizzled mule driver smirked.

"I'm afraid to ask how." Maria replied, looking daggers at me again.

A lutenist struck up a slow, throbbing melody.

"We want to SEE something,"

"What? You cochinos want me to take off my clothes?"

The audience yelled and whistled their congratulation for her clever surmise.

Maria looked down at the clothes she had on. A short red skirt, a tight white short sleeve blouse covered with a black silk jacket. She tried to recall what she had on underneath, and remembered that her husband had convinced her to wear something sexy for the trip -- a pair of black satin panties and matching bra. The crowd kept whistling and as she looked out at them, she realized that all eyes were on her. Even the guy that smelled like he had bathed in Rioja red had awakened.

She reached her hand down, and unbuttoned the top button of her blouse. Looking up, she smiled at the crowd coquettishly and announced, "OK. Where is Don Miguel?"

"More! More!" The crowd was rowdy and she could hear voices yelling at her to "Take it off, take it all off. We want to see those chichis!"

"Go ahead, Maria. You make your characters do it all the time," I said. "Take off your clothes, then you'll know how it feels."

She shook her head, but her hands were reaching toward the front of her blouse. She watched as they slowly unbuttoned her blouse. The lute grew louder and was joined by a guitar.

"You've go to do it, Maria if you want to meet Cervantes."

"I don't know if I even WANT to meet Cervantes," she replied , but she had begun moving to the beat. Ripping off her jacket, she heard the crowd whistle and cheer her on. "Take it all off Maria! Don Miguel is not far away."

"I don't want to do this!" she protested, but she continued to strip off her clothes. Soon she was dancing in just her bra and panties.

"Chi-chis! Chi-chis! Chi-chis!" chanted the crowd.

Maria's hands began to unsnap the bra as she listened to the rhythm of the music, her body mimicking it perfectly. Freeing her tits from the garment, the obviously excited woman flung it into the crowd and began to dance more energetically.

"A train! A train! A train!" the excited men roared.

Maria looked over at me in desperation. "Homer, you can't make me pull a train. Trains haven't been invented yet!"

"Maybe 'railroad' trains haven't been invented," I grinned with leprechaunious logic, "But haven't you heard of pack trains? Mule trains? Have a nice day, Maria." I waved and walked out the door.

Over a mile away I could still hear Maria's cries of ecstasy. Sounds really carried out here on the Mancha.

Wesendonck estate near Zurich, circa 1857:

"Good afternoon, Herr Wagner," Allison greeted the rather bony composer.

"Pardon our intruding, sir, but Ms. George here has long admired your music and wanted to see how you compose it." I added.

"Another Amerikan tourist?" he grumbled. "Oh, vell, go ahead, zay it! Get it out of ze vay."

"Say what?" Allison asked.

"Ze stupid zhoke."

"I don't understand."

"Ze zhoke, ze zhoke '9W.'" Wagner replied with growing disgust. "You know, 'ze answer iss 9W, vhas iss ze qvestion?'"

"I'm confused," confessed Alison.

"All Amerikans know ze damned zhoke, get it over vith: 'ze answer is 9W, vhas iss ze QVESTION?'"

"The question?" repeated Allison, totally baffled.

"Ja? Ze qvestion, 'Do you spell your name vith a V, Herr Wagner?'"

"And the ANSWER is '9W?'" said Allison with an uncomprehending frown. Then she brightened. "Oh, I get it! '9 W.' 'Nein, "W."' Oh, that's very funny, Herr Wagner, very - he he HE -- funny. Oh, I love it! '9' -- ha ha HA -- 'W,' -- ho ho HO," cried Allison, LOL&ROF.

"Mein Gott! Mein Gott! Ze only Amerikan in ze vourld who never heard zees dizgustink zhoke and I'm zuckered into telling it!" Wagner buried his face in his hands.

"Vie haf you come to disturp me, anyvay?" he moaned.

"Vell, I mean, well, I'm a singer and I just love your operas and..."

"You, a zinger? Vhat do you zing?" Wagner shot back, incredulous.

"I'm a soprano, well really more of a soubrette."

"A zoprano? You do not LOOK like a zoprano," Wagner said throwing out his hands to indicate HIS conception of a zo, er, a soprano.

"You mean I'm not Wagnerian enough? Well just because I don't have boobs as big as Birgit Nilsson's, doesn't mean I can't sing," Allison sniffed. "They aren't echo chambers, after all."

"Out! Out! I haf vork to do. I am vritink ze 'Luf Zolo' for 'Tristan and Isolde.' It must be ready as a birthday present for my vife, Minna."

"Oh, that's so sweet! I LOVE that opera! And the 'Love Duet' is one of the most erotic pieces of music in the entire operatic repertoire," Allison gushed sincerely.

"You zink zo?" Wagner replied, flattered. "But... you zaid 'duet' I am vriting a zo... Javolh! Ein duet! Tristan declares his luf for Isolde and she responds in kind. He sings..." Wagner broke into the first bars of the introduction.

"And Isolde replies..." said Allison, breaking into song at the appropriate measure.

I began to see what Allison meant when she said the piece was erotic. As their voices flew up and down the scale, their hands grew busy undressing each other. As the music rose in intensity Wagner fondled Allison's 34 Bs even as Allison's clever hands found Wagner's...

Ha! Bet you thought I was going to tell you the size of Wagner's cock. Wrong! I don't *write* about the sizes of authors' cocks! This is a serious literary exercise in which six well-known writers, each admired for her ASS... work, are visiting some of the fonts of their artistic imagination. You can't expect me to insult men like that by talking about the sizes of their cocks!

"Zeven inges" called out Wagner.

I covered my face.

But then my attention was drawn again to the almost obscene spectacle unfolding before me. As the notes slowly climbed the chromatic scale, Wagner's and Allison's bodies became covered with sweat, Wagner's because he was near to coming, Allison's because she was nowhere near to coming - the bastard was going to leave her high and dry! Only a few bars remained before the approaching climax -- or lack thereof.


All our heads snapped around to see the handsome young man who had just stepped through a papier mache set. "Herr Wagner! What is the meaning of this? Isolde is betrothed to me, King Marke!"

"Cut! Cut! Cut!" I interjected. "Mark Aster, you bastard! What the hell are you doing in this story? My deal with Louie is that only authoresses can be on the Fantasy Train - no authors!"

"I don't believe I am 'on' the train," he replied smugly.

I was going to kill that lawyering leprechaun. "You're still interloping in my story."

"Sue me!" he smiled.

"LW can represent you!" Allison offered, her eyes lighting up as she appraised the promising bulge in Aster's pants.

"Outrageous!' I protested.

"Good-bye, Homer, Herr Wagner. I'll TRY to see that Allison gets back to the train by sometime tonight. Now if you'll excuse me, I have some serious authoress-fucking to do."

"Oh, Mahk!" cooed Allison, breaking into a phony Southern-Belle accent as she began fondling her favorite male body part. "Hauw ro-MAN-tic! Comin' awl the way from New Orelands jus to see littl' ole ME!"

Wagner and I were still staring at each other in disbelief when the final notes of the "Love Duet" resumed. Allison's climactic high B moll shattered every window in the house.

"I guezz," Wagner remarked, looking down at the score, "I zhould not haf marked zat as 'molto orgasmisimo.'"

"So who do *I* get to visit," Janey inquired impatiently. "Bronwen, and Virago Blue, and Allison are all probably getting it for a second or third time by now and Maria's pulling a fuckin' train if I know her. I'm horny, dammit, and I want to fuck an author!"

"Just what I had in mind." I replied. "I have someone picked out I think you'll like. He's French."

"French? Oh, goody!" exclaimed Janey. "Paris! Paris, of course! Lots of pastis and Bordeaux and creme brulee. And sooo many sexy writers: Guy de Maupassant, or the guy who invented the Three Musketeers** --can't remember his name --or *sigh* Victor Hugo, or Beaudelaire, Balzac, Flaubert, or Zola, and then we can meet Jane Avril and Toulouse-Lautrec. She's my heroine and..."

{** Janey is referring to Alexander Dumas, not the inventor of the candy bar, whose name I don't know, either.}

"I'd thought of Proust," I said.

"Proust?" she exploded in dismay. "That pansy! I'd twist him around my 2x4!"

"Look! I offered you the chance to write this section, Janey, and you turned it down, so you have to take whomever I choose," I replied. "Besides, it won't be as bad as you think."

Deauville, France circa 1890:

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